


Strapped Down

by Artifex_Verbum



Category: Prodigal Son (TV 2019)
Genre: Eventual Smut, M/M, Restraints
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-22
Updated: 2021-01-22
Packaged: 2021-03-13 22:28:44
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,791
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28910874
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Artifex_Verbum/pseuds/Artifex_Verbum
Summary: Martin has escaped Claremont and for reasons yet to be discovered, Malcolm is letting him stay at his loft so he can at least keep an eye on him. But when Martin asks if he can try out Malcolm's cuffs, things take an interesting turn.
Relationships: Malcolm Bright/Martin Whitly
Comments: 1
Kudos: 38





	Strapped Down

“Nice setup you’ve got here,” Martin walked towards his boy’s bedroom, hungry eyes devouring every inch that sprawled before him. It was unfathomable, the number of times he had envisioned Malcolm’s home. Sadly, he was never successful in rendering a complete picture, as he had no real details; but here it was...all laid out for him to take in. 

Bright stood as unmoving as a potted plant in the space between the entry, bedroom and kitchen. He had followed Martin around as the older man embarked on a self guided tour, seemingly saving Malcolm’s bedroom for last.

“You’ll sleep on the couch of course,” Malcolm informed his unwanted guest with as much warmth as a mountainous February blizzard. 

Martin turned to look at him. He wet his upper lip with his tongue and then sighed. “Of course.” 

His footsteps seemed unreasonably loud against the hardwood floor and Malcolm struggled to reconcile the sight before him. This man was a monster, he should be sequestered away from society, chained to the wall where he belonged, not surveying his bedroom.

“I’d ask if I could get you anything, but all I have is whiskey and licorice.” 

Martin laughed, his hands clasped together under his belly. Perhaps he was so used to having his hands cuffed that he forgot he could move them.

“What kind of host has Jessica raised you to be?” his eyes crinkled when he shot a smile towards his son. 

Malcolm hated how charming the doctor was. He hated that his fear of this man had somehow inexorably tangled with his arousal.

“This is...interesting. Ainsley did mention that you sleep in chains,” Martin had moved even closer to the bed and picked up one of the restraints that held Malcolm’s wrist as he slept. The chain clanked lightly in an anemic echo of Martin’s usual chains.

He couldn’t tear his eyes away from the way that Martin held the leather cuff, his thumb roaming over the surface, and he wished that he could better see the expression on his downturned face. 

“Could I give them a shot?” he turned to ask Malcolm suddenly.

His brain short circuited. 

“N-no, you can’t put my restraints o-on me,” he tumbled over the words as his brain quickly cut to visualizing Martin standing over him and taking his vulnerable wrist in his strong, murderous hands. The flash daydream felt like a mock recreation of when his father would tuck him in at night as a child. It was insane how far away those days were, he had so greatly detached from them that they didn’t even feel like his life, but someone else’s.

“No, that’s not what I was asking,” Whitly chuckled. “I meant...could I try them on me?”  
Arousal, hot as lightning and just as fast, flashed through Malcolm with such ferocity that his cock ached with how immediately it was filling. He sucked in a deep breath and hoped that Martin missed how shaky it was. 

“W-why? I mean, you’ve been locked up for twenty years and in your first week of freedom you want to...you want to lie in my bed and try my restraints?” 

Martin turned and sat down on the bed’s edge, ignoring the question, not caring to psychoanalyze his motives. All he knew was that he wanted to lie where Malcolm slept, to feel what Malcolm felt. He wasted no time in getting horizontal and threading his fingers together, hands rested on his tummy.

To Malcolm it felt like a trap. His mind urged him to laugh off his father’s ridiculous request and retreat to the kitchen or the living room, but his feet forced him forward. His father was tricking him with his soft, lightweight navy blue sweater and nondescript slacks. He looked normal, harmless, reminiscent of the last time Malcolm had seen him in civilian dress...in that blood red sweater...being carted off by the police - by Gil.

“Coming?”

Malcolm blinked, realizing he had stopped halfway to the bed. He continued forward. 

Martin was no longer the looming, intimidating figure. He was lying down, looking up at Malcolm expectantly with a gaze that said - ‘I don’t know if you’re here to tuck me in or slit my throat but I approve either way.’ 

Malcolm looked down at the man’s head of curls being crushed on his pillow and he wondered what his bed would smell like if Martin stayed there.

His heart skipped a beat.

“This is silly,” he said hoarsely, but he found no humor in this. All that buzzed between the hot shells of his reddened ears was adrenaline and arousal. As he came to the side of the bed, he reached the conclusion too late that he couldn’t hide his body’s reaction. 

Mentally, he chastised himself in a flurry of curse words. 

How could he come so close when aroused? Had his arousal fried his good sense and better judgement? It was insane! Martin was at waist level and his eyes glittered like cut glass as they noted the tent in Malcolm’s slacks. 

The thirty-two year old hoped that his father would ignore what he saw...or mock it...or be disgusted and reprimand him. The single most dangerous thing he could do would be to reciprocate, and he dreaded that possibility. He had feared showing his hand from the moment he informed Martin that he would be staying at his loft so that he could keep an eye on him.

It was disgusting how easily he had tipped his hand, how quickly he let his buried desires rise to the surface, how remarkably malleable he was to Martin's manipulation. 

He didn’t move, frozen like a deer in headlights and waiting for Martin’s reaction. But the only reaction to be seen was Martin lightly biting his lower lip as his pupils widened and his breath quickened.

No words were spoken, but he was aroused.

This was bad news for Malcolm who was losing his last toe hold on his sanity. Now he should really turn his back on this, but...his curiosity, or his sexual dryspell and resulting insanity, or the power of Martin’s penetrating gaze held him fast on this treacherous course. Truth be told, he had fantasized about Martin for years. It was the only thing he’d ever held back from his therapist...until Ainsley’s most recent actions of course. It was his dirty secret that no one knew and now the worst possible person knew. Now Martin knew.

He picked up the leather restraint and pulled it toward him. His elegant pale fingers opened the fastening and he reached for Martin’s left hand. Halfway there though, it began to shake. Just like his erection, he couldn’t hide this from his father. But Martin did not hesitate to reach up and lightly take Malcolm’s hand in his.

The shock of the touch and the burning lust it elicited made the tremor stop. Malcolm sucked in a breath and continued on, sliding Martin’s hand through the restraint. He had to widen the cuff to get his hand through, and once in, he tightened it, fastened it. 

Now his cock was leaking in his boxer briefs. There was something about subduing the beast in restraints that felt immensely satisfying. It was just a facsimile of power, but he lapped it up nonetheless. 

“So son,” Martin sounded breathless. “How do you get yourself out of these when you wake up?”

Bright let his hand linger on Martin’s chained left wrist, his fingers absently rubbing the soft skin next to the cuff. It made no sense that his skin was so soft...

“I use my teeth.” 

“Ah…” Martin half moaned, half sighed, shifting his hips. 

The movement made Malcolm look there and he mistakenly let out a groan. Blushing wildly, and in need of doing something - anything - he moved to the foot of the bed, walking around to the other side. He got the other cuff determined that he would try to perfunctorily attach it to Martin’s right hand. He undid the buckle.

He wanted to do it quickly and without thought or emotion, but Martin, ever endeavoring to pull his son under the sinful tide, brushed the back of his hand against his clothed erection. 

The move was wholly unexpected and Malcolm’s knee-jerk reaction was to grasp Martin’s hand. The intention should have been to grab the hand and fling it off of him, but to his horror, he had grabbed it and pressed the back of it harder against his dick. 

Martin groaned - fucking groaned - and at hearing the tortured sound, that same nearly painful shout of arousal tore through Malcolm’s body. His hips jerked forward without his permission and the hard rub of Martin’s knuckles felt good but weren’t nearly enough. 

The sound of their breathing was deafening in the space between them and Malcolm had to clear his throat, reorder his thoughts and get the restraint on Martin’s wrist. 

If Martin was disappointed, he didn’t let it show on his face. He just lay there, wrists held captive by the kinkier version of handcuffs and the rest of his body staying pinned beneath the weighty gaze of Malcolm. 

He knew that his boy used these restraints for his night terrors, but he couldn’t help but wonder if he made the items multitask...they were made for sexier purposes afterall.

“You should still be locked up like this,” Malcolm whispered. His hand let go of Martin’s and roamed past the cuff, up his arm a bit before sliding onto his chest, fingers exploring the warmth of his fuzzed sweater. It was calming to see and feel the rise and fall of his chest. 

“Cuffed up, yes,” Martin agreed, “but like this? They didn’t have anything quite so kinky at Claremont.” 

“It’s not kinky...I...I use these to sleep,” he ran his thumb over Martin’s nipple, which was hard beneath his clothing.

“Right,” his voice twisted. “But you can’t tell me that you don’t also have ankle restraints...not for sleeping...for sex.”

Malcolm’s wandering exploration was taking his touch lower.

“I...I do...have ankle restraints,” he admitted. To be fair, his BDSM guy had urged him to get them because they matched his wrist restraints and he promised him a good deal. He had never used them for sex, too timid to ask Eve to do anything beyond vanilla lovemaking.

“I wouldn’t be opposed to you putting them on me,” Martin watched Malcolm’s fingers play at his hip, the dance stopping when he made the suggestion. 

“Okay.” 

The doctor lay there, waiting and watching as Malcom retrieved the ankle cuffs and began affixing them to the bottom of his bed where hooks were apparently already waiting.

Knowing that he had these things made Martin wonder what else Malcolm had. Did he have a chest of sex toys lying in wait? How many partners had he had? Did he fuck men? Did he top? Did he bottom?

“I can hear you thinking, and I don’t like it,” Malcolm was undoing his right shoe and then moving to his left. The act felt far too intimate. 

“Why don’t you like it?” 

The ankle restraint went on his right foot and Malcolm tightened it harshly. 

“Because you’re always plotting, always scheming, always manipulating.”

Martin huffed a laugh. “Am I manipulating you right now?” 

“Probably.”

“How? By making you hard?” 

Malcolm’s hand nearly slipped as he fastened the other foot. 

“Does it feel good? To chain one monster and let the other loose?” Martin purred, his eyes dancing in the dim light. 

“I haven’t done anything…”

“You want to,” Martin’s voice dropped so low that it seemed to rattle Malcolm’s bones. “And I want you to. Do I have to beg Malcolm?”

“I-” the flush on his cheeks deepened as he pictured the proud doctor begging for scraps of touch.

“How many men have you fucked my boy? Or have fucked you?” 

“That’s none of your…”

“I bet you haven’t slept with anyone in ages - man or woman,” he moved his hips against nothing. “What passing connection can grasp the complexities of who you are? And you need that to be sexually gratified...you need that understanding.”

“You don’t know that,” he said nervously, unmoored by his father’s accurate assessment. He was supposed to be the profiler, not the one being profiled.

“I know you Malcolm.”

“You don’t,” he shot back, agitated. It should have crushed his arousal, but it only stoked the fire. 

“I’m a part of you, remember?” he licked his lips and dragged his eyes over Malcolm’s body at the foot of the bed, the innuendo unspoken but there. “I think you’re desperate for touch, but too afraid of trusting someone to give it to you. I think tying me up, seeing me all tied up, it only ratchets up an arousal that was already there to begin with…” he spoke the final dozen words almost softly, as if afraid he would spook his rabbit boy.

“You’re trying to manipulate me...even now,” Malcolm said sadly.

“No, I’m -” he huffed, exasperated. “I’m in a position of vulnerability, laid out for you, desperate for…”

“For what?”

“For your touch Malcolm,” he nearly choked on the words, they were too weighted and powerful. “For your attention. For whatever you need. If you want me as a warm body to lie next to...or if you want to take your pleasure from me...or - or give me pain…”

Malcolm brought his hands together in front of him, putting the pressure of his heel on his aching cock, but it did nothing to hide him or extinguish his desire.

Outside, it began to rain. The already dark night had managed to grow darker as water spat against the window. 

Bright was torn - so very torn. Part of him wanted to put his knees on the bed and crawl up into the space made by Martin’s spread legs. He wanted to lie on his chest and bury his face in his neck as he ground his hips against him.

Part of him wanted to run away, to vomit, to scream, to call his therapist or Gil or both. But he was already hiding the biggest secret of all - that he covered up Ainsley’s killing of Endicott, that he disposed of a body, and broke the law. So what was another secret?

This one he’d been carrying for ages - since he was a teenager really. Those afternoons spent at Claremont with his notebook, under the guise of learning more about serial killers...well, he *was* there for that...but he was there for other reasons too.

When Jess had thrown out every family photo, every belonging of Martin’s...Malcolm had squirreled away photos and sweaters and a bottle of his cologne. 

He thought a decade apart would be a soothing balm over the rash of want he felt towards Martin, but it did nothing more than make their reunion that much more...charged. 

He could feel the electricity that crackled along his skin the second he was in that cell with him. Their word play, their one upmanship, their perpetual dance of good and evil...it felt carnal. 

Martin urging him to stab him - to penetrate him - lived on perpetual replay in Malcolm’s mind. As did seeing him being choked out and his cries reinvigorating Martin’s resolve. It was that and so many other things that swirled in Malcolm’s head. Like the violence Martin unleashed on Eddy, dedicated to him. Or the satisfaction of violence when Malcolm brought that axe down on that poor man’s hand. Or the creeping relief when he’d hammered his own thumb. Or the arousal he’d experienced when trapped by John in the turnstyle. Or the spark that skittered along his skin when he handed Martin the scalpel or had his hand quickly grasped.

“Confess your sins. Unburden yourself.” The words echoed in Malcolm’s psyche. Maybe by harnessing this particular demon, he could quiet his own?

It was Martin’s desperate sigh that brought Malcolm back to reality.

He had seriously zoned out, crawling up the bed, past Martin’s hips, and sitting on his lower belly. His arms were prostrate on either side of Martin’s chest, and his hair flopped down into his face.

He felt powerful, hung in this space above Martin Whitly - the murderer, the escapee, the brilliant doctor. 

“You can’t turn him in, not yet,” his brain had supplied when he first encountered the convict on the lamb. “You need him right now, just as much as he needs you. Keep him. Cage him. Use him.” 

“So my boy,” Martin’s gravelly voice felt like a physical caress now that they were so close. “What’ll it be?”


End file.
